


Survival

by J_Baillier



Series: On Pins And Needles [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (this is Sherlock after all), Angst, Anxiety, Board Games, Doctor!John, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gory description of a crime scene, Hurt/Comfort, John is trying not to be a mess too, M/M, Mycroft being a good big brother, Mycroft recognises the risk of messes, POV Mycroft Holmes, Panic, Protective!BAMF!John, Romance, Serious Illness, Sherlock is a Mess, Sickfic, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, medical drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 03:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16632233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: Sherlock has stayed healthy as years have passed—so many that fear of a relapse of his Guillain-Barré begins to fade into obscurity even in the mind of Mycroft Holmes.But, one day, a cryptic text message arrives from John Watson.





	1. Soldiers Today

**Author's Note:**

> There is one aspect of this fic series in which not much closure has not been achieved before: the fractured relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft. In this three-chapter story, we get to see whether the rift that was at its greatest at the end of _On the Rack_ can ever be bridged. 
> 
> This may well be the final part of On Pins and Needles. I never say never, but in many ways this closes the proverbial circle. Thank you all who have enjoyed, commented, recced, reviewed and loved this series over the years it has existed.
> 
> First draft betaed by 7PercentSolution.

  
Communications from John Watson tend to be simple and not cryptic at all, which is why Mycroft regards the message he has just received with a thoughtful frown.

It says: _'get over here but do it quietly'_.

There is no doubt as to whose antics need to be discussed discreetly, and it pleases Mycroft to be asked to get involved. As adamant as John had once been about the need for Mycroft to step back from being so dominantly involved in his younger brother's life, said brother's beau has not sought to alienate the two siblings—quite the opposite. It has been John who has prompted Sherlock to keep in touch instead of it always being Mycroft who maintains relations.

Once, Mycroft had been in possession of a key to the flat at 221B Baker Street, but John had confiscated it after he and Sherlock had become romantically involved. So, instead of being able to let himself in, Mycroft must make do with sending John a reply to his message from downstairs. Luck is on his side; he has just slipped the Blackberry back into his pocket when the landlady, heading out for shopping, lets him in to the warm, dimly lit downstairs foyer. Sometimes Mycroft pities the old woman for the way Sherlock seems to have suborned her to domestic servitude of two men with the habits of bachelors. Thankfully, the doctor half of their union is made of sterner stuff and can put Sherlock in his place when he's being stupid about chores. Once, when speaking with John on the phone, an ambient sound of hoovering could be heard. After Mycroft had voiced his assumption that it was Mrs Hudson, he had been flabbergasted to be corrected: Sherlock had lost a bet.

Mycroft shakes droplets of rain off his coat and snaps the stud on his now folded umbrella.

It takes a few minutes for John to appear in the upstairs landing. He slowly, conscientiously closes the door to the flat, gripping the handle with both hands to keep it from clicking. Then, he hurries down the stairs, feet only covered by socks. He looks thoroughly domestic in his plaid shirt and worn jeans, which isn't unusual, but the look on his face is.

The only time John Watson ever conceals anything from his spouse is when it is said spouse's birthday. Mycroft has been trying for years to convince the man that Sherlock is not pretending to hate birthday surprises—he genuinely loathes surprises _in general_ , because they deprave him of a chance to prepare a reaction he assumes is socially acceptable. But, John still elects to implement such tiresome torture.

"Good aft––" Mycroft starts, only to be rudely interrupted.

"I need you to find and hire the best neuroimmunologist in London."

For a man with Mycroft's intellect, the implications are instantaneously obvious. The deduction comes, cold and clear, what this summons is about.

He tries to prepare to verbalise his reaction, but John hastens to continue: "And, if you're going to be shocked, do it quickly and quietly. We have things to do."

There are questions, a veritable number of them, and it's difficult to pick the most pertinent one. _First, confirm event._ "A relapse? God, no?" Mycroft finally blurts out, still reeling. There are very few things in this life that might disturb his equilibrium but being swung back into what just may have been the second worst period in his adult life is one of them.

John nods.

Relapse.

This is what Sherlock fears above all other things in the world, and Mycroft has never told him how greatly that fear haunts him, too. He can now understand the expression John had been wearing as he hurried down the steps; this is his worst nightmare, too. John had been the one to sit vigil beside Sherlock's bed as he was hospitalised, as he deteriorated, after he was intubated and needed a respirator to stay alive. Those months gave Mycroft a deep appreciation of the man's tenacity, empathy, and devotion to his younger brother. John had given Sherlock what Mycroft had not been at all equipped or welcomed to provide: comfort, courage, and reassurance.

"Keep your voice down," John says, though Mycroft had spoken very quietly. "I just got him to sleep. Gave him some midazolam," he admits and glances up the stairs. "I've kept some in the house. Call it a hunch that I might need it one day if this happened."

Mycroft is aware of the significance of this—as a rule, John Watson does not provide such medications for his brother. "Is he very–––" he can't quite find the word, "––upset?"

The tension in the line of John's shoulders relaxes a bit, as though Mycroft's words had released it. They don't have a habit of discussing the past—especially not the GBS—but Mycroft has gathered from certain things John has said over the years that, while time has given all of them some perspective into the events, some of the more visceral aspects of the experience linger on for Sherlock in his dreams and the way in which he worries about every head cold and other infection he contracts as a potential trigger.

John shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. "You know he can get pretty dramatic even over the smallest things, and this is not small, it's–––it's––Well, hysterical would be a good word right now."

"Are you sure it's the Guillain-Barré? Shouldn’t we contact the National? I'm sure some of the experts from the last episode are still practicing there."

John inhales, his expression now shaped be steely determination. "I don't care who you hire, just that you do it. I am _not_ taking him to a hospital— _any_ hospital. No matter what happens, he stays at home. I don't care if we have to build a bloody ITU in his bedroom; he does not go the National—or anywhere else."

Mycroft knows that the illness itself may not have been the worst part of the GBS—the combination of Sherlock's peculiar personality and his past traumas clashing with a hospital environment had been the crux of his suffering. That is why Mycroft does not accuse John of failing to be objective, or for making unrealistic or medically unsafe plans: this is the right decision, even if it may be quite complicated to execute.

Mycroft leans his palms on his umbrella; the familiar tactile sensation of its wooden handle is comforting. "Still, won't he need an assessment first, a visit to A&E to establish a definitive diagnosis?"

"He's had it before; it doesn't seem necessary to put him through all the tests again to establish what we already know. I want an expert to come to us, to come assess him here," John emphasizes, nodding towards the stairs.

"That should be easy to arrange; everything Sherlock requires will be delivered. Should I–––"

"You'll make sure that any red tape, guideline, and rule about my involvement will be circumvented?" John's tone is pleading, urgent.

In general, doctors treating family members is not allowed. This should be easy to circumvent with a call to the Chief Executive of the GMC that will ensure potential complaints and inquiries regarding John's role will be buried swiftly and discreetly. "Of course."

"I won't pretend to be the equivalent of a neurologist or intensivist, but I will be in charge of looking after him."

"Of course."

John rocks on his heels, nervously pressing the heels of his palms briefly on his closed lids. It looks as though every fibre of his being is trying to pull him back upstairs. "I need you to promise one more thing."

Mycroft raises an inquiring brow.

"I need you to come and sit with him two nights a week for a couple of hours. I'm sure Mrs Hudson will agree to two nights a week; I haven't told her yet what's going on. Molly and Greg promised to each take one evening."

"Sit with him? To what purpose?"

"Even before a diagnosis is confirmed, I need to make some plans, because if—or when—someone that's not me says the words out loud, confirms what Sherlock already knows, all hell is going to break loose. To be able to do this with him, I will need to get out of the flat for a little bit every day to keep my head on straight. And, if I don't arrange all this now, I won't be able to tear myself away from him even when I should. I need to make this deal, now, so I won't back out of it when push comes to shove."

"That sounds very sensible." Mycroft means it. He had seen the strain put on John during Sherlock's first episode, and if he will stay here, at home, where John will be effectively responsible for him around the clock, the army doctor will desperately need an outlet, a breather, a regular break. "Though I doubt he will actively want my company," Mycroft reminds him.

"You were there for him the last time. He knows that. Just sit with him, have a beer, let him yell at the Great British Bake-off or something."

_Beer?!_

"Yell at the television?" Mycroft asks warily.

"Yeah, he tends to––" John suddenly trails out, eyes wide when he realises that Mycroft is not puzzled by the notion of his brother protesting the contents of a TV programme but reminding him that yelling was a skill he had lost very early into the process of his first encounter with GBS.

"I can't lose it," John says, and it seems he's addressing himself rather than present company. "Because he's going to be doing plenty of that on behalf of all of us." He bites his lip. "Soldiers today," he mutters, and again indulges in a nervous glance up the stairs.

"Relapses tend to be statistically milder than a first episode, according to medical literature," Mycroft points out, buttoning up his coat. There is much to do, and the information he needs has already been conveyed. No sense in burning daylight.

He has three thick folders in his study at home, unlabelled. They contain all the research he and Anthea have done into GBS, including relapse rate and severity. Those folders were regularly updated up until five years after Sherlock's original illness. Mycroft internally berates himself for allowing himself to be lulled by the passing of time into a false sense of security.

"Yeah, they're normally milder." John sounds sceptical. "But, when has Sherlock ever done anything like everybody else?

"Point taken. Still, the need for intensive care is unlikely."

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't."

"We should not get ahead of ourselves."

"Oh, _he's_ getting _way_ ahead of himself already," John snaps. He slams his palm on the balustrade but sways a little as he vacillates between taking the first step up and turning back to continue the conversation.

Mycroft does not take offence from John's acerbic tone—the man is stressed out. The older Holmes has witnessed countless times the drama brought on by Sherlock's tendency to catastrophize and wallow in worst-case scenarios. Trying to weather that as a spectator would challenge anyone's mental equilibrium.

"Any new treatments available?"

"I don't think so, at least not for milder cases. I should do some research, I haven't looked into that in years––" John is now embarrassed, guilty for what he must perceive of as neglect in preparing for this day. He lets his head hang low as he's shaking it.

"It's been such a long time, John. Even I succumbed to the temptation to assume the danger had passed."

John looks up at him, searching for something on his features. He seems to calm down a little, and he lets out a hollow laugh. "You? Mister Strategic Contingency?"

Mycroft clears his throat. "What is his current status?"

"He had a flu two weeks ago and has been nursing just an after-sniffle since. Woke up with back pain two days ago. There's no cranial nerve involvement but there is slowly progressive leg muscle weakness. He can still walk when supported. It's clearly slower this time."

"When did he begin suspecting it was GBS?"

"I don't know. There's no case on so I thought him being glued to the sofa was just, well, you know how he gets. Wouldn't tell me anything until three hours ago when he needed help getting to the loo; saying it out loud seemed to make it sink in and he's been in a state since."

Mycroft can't help wondering what John's initial reaction had been. Perhaps it is still ongoing. The man is usually calmer than this in a crisis. "Denial has always been his method of choice for dealing with things he finds overwhelming. It will be alright," he adds awkwardly. To Mycroft this attempt at consolation sounds as though it trips on itself, and ends up sounding like an apprehensive question.

For Mycroft, waiting to see how far the disease would advance was, by far, the worst part of Sherlock's initial episode. There had been nights when he'd just been rolling around in bed, tempted to fling away the duvet, call his driver, and go to the hospital to see for himself what the situation was, instead of waiting for John to report to him on whether symptoms had progressed. He wanted to hear _all_ the news—and also wanted to hear it if there were none. He had longed to be reassured, when no one could provide such a thing even for the actual patient.

"I can't afford to downplay things with him if it ends up being severe—he wouldn't trust me after that and he can tell when I'm trying to keep something from him. But, I can't afford to scare him more. I hid his phone and laptop; he'd drive himself nuts googling things," John admits. "Getting anxious isn't helping him, so I offered him…something, because he hasn't slept in days. He took it."

If Sherlock is listening to that much reason, perhaps there is hope of his mind not fracturing itself over this.

Just like last time, it's not his brother's body that Mycroft most worries about.

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


  
An hour later, just as his driver is pulling up at his home in South Eaton Place, Mycroft receives the message he is expecting from Anthea, telling him that all necessary arrangements have been finalised.

Right after, his phone pings with a text from John:

_'Moly's got Saturday Greg things he can do monday Mrs Hudson says anytime fine tusedaywednesday alright with you?'_

The man's typing and grammar are, at best, lacking—and a good gauge as to his state of mind.

_'I will clear my schedule. Is Sherlock alright with this rota you have devised? MH'_

John's reply comes quickly: _'he’s still asleep not in a state to comment'_

 _'There will be a regular delivery of groceries from Ocado; a username and password will be emailed to you, enabling you to alter the orders as you see fit. Your medication and medical equipment contact will be Dr Rob Lake at the Lyons Clinic. Tell him what you need, and it will promptly be delivered. Locum cover has been arranged for your position at Chelsea &Westminster Accidents&Emergencies department. MH' _After sending the message, Mycroft texts Anthea, instructing her to forward Dr Lake's contact details to John's phone.

Two years prior, John had made an arrangement with Chelsea&Westminster for short notice locum work; being called in at a moment's notice fits his lifestyle with Sherlock much better than setting up shifts well beforehand and then having to cancel because he is, for instance, stuck investigating a murder victim in an abandoned mine in Cumbria.

 _'bloody fuck completely forgot about work'_ is the next message Mycroft receives from his brother-in-law.

_'It will be alright. MH'_

It is uncharacteristic of him to offer such reassurances, especially to a former soldier and military physician who has proven his nerves of steel countless times by wanting to put up with his brother. But, these are special circumstances. Out of all potential scenarios which could cause stress to one John Hamish Watson, this ranks among the very worst.

 _'You might be the British government, but not even you can promise that'_ , John replies.  
  
  



	2. Progress

 

Two days later, Mycroft has barely pried his eyes open when he's already tearing himself out of bed and hurrying to his study without even putting his slippers on. His Blackberry has not pinged during the night which means that either there are no news, or that the news are so dire that they have kept John Watson too busy to inform him.

He puts his laptop and fixes his gaze on the program he knows he'd left open at two in the morning when he'd last checked on 221B Baker Street.

"One camera, sitting room. No recording, just live, with a link to my phone," John had told him on the phone. "I know you'll be watching and that's…fine, under the circumstances."

"Do make sure he doesn't drop it in the toilet bowl. The equipment is somewhat expensive," Mycroft had remarked, careful to conceal his delight at John's request.

"I need to be able to run to Tesco or whatever, to leave him alone for ten minutes when Mrs Hudson isn't in," John had needlessly explained.

The pin-sized camera in the ceiling lamp may be pricey, but it is no cost at all when it comes to Mycroft's peace of mind.

He can hear talking from somewhere else in the flat, but the sitting room is empty. He grabs the laptop with its lid still open and carries it to the kitchen where his housekeeper—carefully vetted and with a security clearance—is preparing tea. He places the computer on the kitchen table and keeps an eye on it while starting on breakfast.

Eventually, the two occupants appear, and Mycroft does a double take when the sight appearing in the camera window is that of John carrying his brother into the sitting room from their bedroom. Sherlock's head is held high and he has wrapped his arms around John's neck, holding on for dear life.

"Never did get to carry you over the threshold. Thank God you're such a skinny git," John grunts, depositing Sherlock on his feet next to the coffee table.

Mycroft frowns. Has he completely lost the ability to walk?

He exhales in relief when John withdraws entirely, and Sherlock manages to stand momentarily before dropping down to sit on the sofa.

"I'd say that experiment was a success," the younger Holmes comments dryly.

"I can't do that ten times a day, my shoulder's going to kill me."

"I hardly visit the bathroom ten times a day," Sherlock dismisses and turns on the television while John puts the kettle on.

Soon, they're nestled on the sofa, John sitting at the other end and Sherlock with his head on his husband's lap, both scarfing down pieces of toast heavily laden with jam.  
  


  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-

  
  
The next morning, when Mycroft signs into the system from his phone in the car, he is treated to an argument.

As per John's request, bedside testing equipment for arterial blood samples has been delivered—a state of the art model the size of a type writer. All other laboratory work will be sent by courier to the Lyons Clinic, but arterial blood gases need to be processed so swiftly that ferrying the samples around London is not an option.

"I have two wrists," Sherlock insists, arms crossed angrily on his duvet-covered chest on the sofa.

"Both of which I want to spare in case I need to put in an arterial line."

"Carotid?"

"Not an option. Not nicking holes in that. We never use it even at Chelsea&Westminster. It's the wrist, the brachial, or the femoral, and you know perfectly well why your brachials are shot to shit."

Mycroft is also privy to that information, having been a part of Sherlock's life when he'd been using heavily. Rare is the healthcare professional who can even get a regular IV started in the crooks of his arms due to the scarring. There's also a surgical scar in his left arm he currently seems to be trying to conceal with his fingers while John is scrutinising his extremities with the urgent focus of a physician.

 _Oh, Sherlock_. After thirteen years of romantic involvement with John, the man must have already seen every inch of his skin. _Still embarrassed. Still not quite dealing with his past._

John pries Sherlock fingers off, kisses the tips. "Didn't mean to snap at you. All you need to do after the femoral is to lie down for a while with a compress on it."

"I'm already lying down." Sherlock often takes things overly literally since sarcasm and other between-the-lines things elude him, but sometimes he also acts deliberately obtuse to worm his way out of conversations he doesn't like.

"If the results are fine, then we don't have to do it very often unless your breathing starts worrying me. I just want a baseline."

"You have my papers from the National. You have a baseline."

"That was years and years ago."

"Which is why we shouldn't even be having this discussion!" Sherlock's tone has climbed slightly in pitch and he's nervously fingering the edge of a decorative pillow.

John sits on the coffee table, his legs between it and the sofa. "You didn't protest the IV and you didn't protest the monitoring. What's this about, then?"

Sherlock glares at him. "I don't want the results."

"From the blood gas sample? You don't want there to be any results, or you don't want to know them?"

Sherlock hums something non-committal, fixes his gaze on the ceiling.

"The last time, it was––"

John leans forward. Perhaps not to hear better, but to gently prompt his partner to continue.  

"That's how they decided, wasn't it? They looked at the oxygen and the carbon dioxide."

John spreads his arms. "I'm not following."

Sherlock's sigh is histrionic, complete with an eye roll. "There's a surprise."

"They decided…?" John tries, then withdraws back into silence as he tries to deduce what Sherlock doesn't want to say. "Oh."

"I don't want you to be the one to have to do it. If we have to. Do it."

"Intubation? The respirator?"

Sherlock visibly cringes.

"Sherlock, I won't be the one. We have an arrangement with Lyons; I've got an intensivist and an anaesthetist practically on standby. I'm handling everything else before that and after that—well, mostly—and sod what the GMC thinks, but I wouldn't take on all that alone. As for the blood gas results, I won't tell you anything you don't need to know." John reaches out and gives Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze.

Sherlock shoves away the duvet and drags his pyjama bottoms downwards to reveal his left groin. "Get the sample."  
  


  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


  
"My phone has only fifty-six percent of battery life," Sherlock announces the next day, a tinge of panic in his voice.

"The charger's in the kitchen", John replies. "And, I'm sure Mycroft's got enough on his that you can get a hold of me. Mrs Hudson's home, she's got a landline––"

"It's not the same." Sherlock complains.

Mycroft enters the bedroom—a breach of privacy he would usually forgo, but the signs are clear that the army doctor may benefit from backup: Sherlock is in the process of only half-inadvertently trying to manipulate John into staying in the flat.

Sherlock grabs John’s jacket from where it has been folded onto the bed and folds it into a tight bundle on his lap as though holding it hostage. He's wearing his own clothes but barefoot, sitting on the edge of the bed. The only signs that anything is amiss with him are the ECG wires snaking out of the collar of his dress shirt and a pulse oximeter clipped to his ear—he had complained that the finger model was cumbersome. There's also a state-of-the-art wireless wrist cuff for blood pressure measurements; a study published only a month ago had established its reliability to be as high as a traditional arm cuff.

John, already fully dressed sans his jacket, is standing by the heavy oak wardrobe Mycroft had given them as a Christmas gift eleven years ago since Sherlock's own was not nearly wide enough to house both their clothes. Perhaps it was an attempt to signal his approval of their romantic relationship, perhaps not—he would not be caught dead admitting to such a thing.

Sherlock is biting his lip, undoubtedly trying to come up with another excuse to keep his husband of ten years from leaving for a bit of time out of the flat. This is exactly what John had anticipated—leaving Sherlock alone for even a moment would be difficult for both of them. John had been wise in heeding the lesson learned all those years ago: if he is not allowed to distance himself from the situation even momentarily each day, caretaker fatigue would set in and ruin the moods of both the flat's occupants. Sherlock, however, is both selfish and anxious enough not to accept such a premise.

"It's worse today," Sherlock informs Mycroft indignantly.

"So I have been told, but the progress is reassuringly slow, according to Doctor Willard," Mycroft reminds his brother, referring to the neuroimmunologist and head physician of the neurological intensive care ward from Imperial College who is privately consulting on the case. "It is unlikely the universe would be so cruel as to make it suddenly advance in leaps and bounds the very minute Doctor Watson leaves the flat."

"The universe _is_ cruel," Sherlock announces.

John sighs and grabs his jacket from Sherlock's lap.

"Where are you even going?"

"Park. Walking."

"It's _raining_ ," Sherlock announces aghast.

 _'Go'_ , Mycroft mouths to John.

"I need to get to the sitting room," Sherlock demands, the volume of his voice rising steadily as the distance between him and John—now making his way to the sitting room—increases.

"Not a problem," Mycroft says, and offers his arm.

Sherlock drops onto his back on the bed with a dramatic sigh. For anyone else than his brother or John, it would be easy to take in his petulant behaviour and come to the conclusion that arranging this elaborate system of constant company and observation is ridiculous, but Mycroft sees behind the show his younger sibling is putting on. When Sherlock feels that he is being dragged out of his comfort zone, exposed to things that stress him out, and _especially_ when he's afraid, he conceals his anxiety behind rather Napoleonic behaviour.

After Mycroft takes a seat in an armchair near the window, Sherlock turns onto his side, reaches over to John's bedside cabinet, grabs a book, perches it on his chest and starts skimming it, commenting on the inanity of the prose and John's poor taste in entertainment.

Mycroft digs out a newspaper he'd began reading at lunch from his briefcase and continues an article on defence budget cuts.

Soon, he can feel himself being glared at. Since Sherlock is fully dressed, it can be assumed that he does not plan on spending the duration of this brotherly visitation in the bedroom. But, of course he cannot ask for assistance. He needs Mycroft to _offer_ so that he can righteously indignant about it and pretend he doesn't really need it.

Once the newspaper is over and done with, Mycroft folds it back into his briefcase, then regards his younger brother patiently. "Would you care for some television?"

"I know you don't."

"I do watch the news."

"Because you like to admire your handiwork."

Mycroft raises half a brow. "Stop dithering. Do you want to leave this room or not?"

" _Yes_." From behind gritted teeth.

It would not be easy for Mycroft, either, to accept a situation in which he was more infirm than his sibling. It is hard to gauge how to best spare both their blushes tonight.

Sherlock pushes himself back into a sitting position; his arm muscles remain uncompromised, even though, according to John, his fingers have been on pins and needles today. Perhaps the impressive upper limb strength rock climbing that he still does on occasion has given him is delaying deterioration.

Sherlock lets himself get dragged to his feet by Mycroft supporting his elbows and holding on to his wrists. Mycroft then wraps an arm around his waist, receives one around his shoulders, and they start slowly making their way to the sitting room.

Errant memories breach the surface of the older Holmes' consciousness—recollections of when the two of them were still children. He remembers carrying Sherlock around the garden on piggyback, the small boy's high-pitched giggles and exhilarated screams making his ears ring.

After Mycroft began to attend boarding school and Eurus got big enough to start demonstrating her…issues, there were no more fun and games. Though Mycroft cannot be certain of this—memories are terribly subjective—he is convinced that is when their drifting apart had begun, instead of adulthood. He has failed on numerous occasions to protect his brother, and the fact that he had been just a child himself during Eurus' reign of terror feels like an excuse, not exoneration. He did not consciously choose all the guilt he has appropriated for the way Sherlock's life has gone, but he cannot escape it.

They have not spoken much about their childhood—not even after Mycroft was finally able to reveal to Sherlock the truth about their sister. After attending her funeral together at Sherrinford, he gave Sherlock a wide berth for weeks, assuming he needed time to process things. He did not even reach out to John to gauge how that was going.

The only conversation regarding the topic happened a month after Sherlock had learned the truth. He showed up, characteristically unannounced, at Mycroft's doorstep at South Eaton Place. He had questions—about 2007. About memories he had believed to be false, memories he assumed to be hallucinations, or the figments of his imagination from a time when he could not tell the real world apart from the contents of his own mind. Mycroft clarified what he could, but eventually he realised that what Sherlock was hoping for was to exonerate _himself_ —to explain away the events of that dreadful year as all being their psychopath sister's fault. Genes. Childhood trauma. After everything, a part of Sherlock clearly still wished to disregard the role of his own choices, of his neuroatypicality, and some other life experiences borne out of less constructive choices in having led to that crisis. It appears that Sherlock still fears that something is so fundamentally wrong with him that he is doomed to fail in all areas of life except what he refers to as the Work.

Neither of them will ever get over the events of the year 2007. But, the fact that they could now have a dialogue about it was remarkable.

"You are ignoring the greatest piece of evidence that you have actually managed quite well," Mycroft had pointed out.

"That being?" Sherlock asked, arms crossed and tone sceptical as he leaned a hip on the antique French desk in Mycroft's library.

"Despite everything we—you— went through as a child and all the hardships you have gone through as an adult, all your challenges and particular difficulties, you carved a place for yourself when a suitable way of life was not available otherwise. You found a person to share your life with and did not give up in slowly and painstakingly acquiring the skills needed to handle such a relationship. You may believe that John has carried a lion's share of that responsibility, but he could have not done it alone."

"John is not the only one who has always been…there." Sherlock had admitted, retreating to stand in the shadows behind an armchair by the fireplace. "I accept that your decisions regarding me and Eurus have not been made maliciously."

"Thank you. Her loss was mostly a relief, mixed with some bitterness and restrained dutiful mourning. Yours, however, would break my heart."

He had thought such things many times, but he and Sherlock never say such things out loud.

"You've had too much whisky," Sherlock dismissed, but without his usual mocking dismissiveness.

"Perhaps," Mycroft replied, both of them well aware that no whisky had been consumed at all that night. If Sherlock needs such an excuse, then Mycroft gladly grants it.

Now, he deposits his baby brother on the sitting room sofa and turns on the television. Sherlock stretches out his hand, palm turned upwards, nimble fingers curling to beckon him to relinquish the remote.

Sherlock picks a program.

_Dear lord, it's some talk show with guests chosen based on their propensity for hysteria._

After a few minutes, Mycroft realises Sherlock isn't really paying attentions to the commotion on screen. Instead, he is typing feverishly on his phone.

"Who are you texting?"

"A progress report."

 _John Watson, then_. "Not what I asked. A progress report on what? There has not been any."

"A report saying exactly that."

"Leave the poor man alone. He needs his break."

"I don't like the insinuation that he needs a break from me."

"But you must know it to be true. He has learned his lessons well from the time you were first stricken. Anyone taking on as intense a duty as acting as a personal physician around the clock needs to take breaks. I suppose it is quite like being constantly on call. He has been gone a mere twenty minutes. Leave him be."

Sherlock shifts on the sofa so that his hands, holding the phone, are as far from Mycroft as possible, even though the older Holmes has made no move to confiscate it. Soon, it pings with a message notification, and Sherlock shows him the screen with a triumphant grin.

_'Duly noted, love. Have fun with Mycroft.'_

"See? He appreciates being kept up to date. Even if he is delusional. _Fun?_ With  _you?_ In what hell dimension would that ever happen?"

Mycroft conceals his smile behind a carefully schooled display of disapproval towards the events unfolding on the television.

  
  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


  
"You're enabling his hysteria by replying to his every communique," Mycroft tells his brother-in-law when he returns two hours later, parka soaked with the icy rain pelting the streets. John has not spent all this time outside, however, judging by the plastic bag filled with worn books bearing library tags.

"I can't tell him to stop worrying. If he has one thing in his life he's allowed to be hysterical about, it's this one, and I don't want to belittle what he's going through. He hates it when people insinuate he's a drama queen, and God knows being at the National was harder on him that it would have been for most people, and it isn't his fault. "

_It isn't his fault he's the way he is._

In Mycroft's opinion, a most commendable thing about John Watson is that he never seems to think that the ways in which Sherlock is different are _wrong_ or _inferior_ , just that those things need to be acknowledged because the real world is not accommodating of them.

"He'll calm down eventually—at the latest, when this plateaus," John says, toeing off his shoes before entering the sitting room proper.

Mycroft begins to button his coat and feels like an intruder as he watches John walk to the bedroom where Sherlock is sitting up in bed, reading. Mycroft can see through the open door their embrace as John briefly wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. They are usually not very demonstrative of their relationship in the presence of others but over the years, Mycroft has witnessed countless moments of quiet intimacy and subtle reassurance.

He wanders down the hallway, feeling the need to bring tonight's social interactions to a decent closure by saying goodnight.

"If my memory serves me––" he starts at the bedroom door.

Sherlock glances at him, presumably to make sure he's leaving. "It always does, so stop being falsely quaint. Makes you sound even more smug than usual."

"––It is Gre––Chief Superintendent Lestrade's turn tomorrow to keep you company while John sees to some errands. How is he these days?"

"What's it to you?" Sherlock asks with a suggestive smirk.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "I merely like to keep an eye on those parts of law enforcement that are worth their wages."

"Especially if you had a hand in promoting them to further your plans of world domination." Sherlock muses, making John chuckle.

"Good night," Mycroft says, and makes his way downstairs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood gas analysis is used in various situations to, for instance, assess a patient's ability to breathe sufficiently by looking at both oxygenation and ability to expel carbon dioxide. The usual panel a commercial bedside testing machine will provide also measures blood glucose, electrolytes, blood pH, base excess… A sample taken from a vein will not give the most reliable assessment of carbon dioxide removal, which is why arterial samples are preferred. The radial artery in the wrist is the usual source, but pricking it several times will leaves bruises and create a haematoma which will make it very difficult to cannulate that artery within the next (let's say) few weeks in case John deems it necessary for continuous blood pressure monitoring and more frequent blood samples. 
> 
> The blood clot Sherlock developed in his arm due to drug use is discussed in "[2007](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11272578/chapters/25209297)". If the brachial and radial arteries are not available for sampling, then the femoral artery is usually the next option. The needle used for drawing the sample is small, but pressure needs to be put on the area for some time afterwards to prevent bleeding.


	3. Plateau

 

"It's a relief, really," Sherlock says out of the blue while frowning at the chess board. It has been arranged onto the coffee table so that he can lean his side against the back rest of a chair if he needs to move a pawn. Mycroft is sitting next to him, waiting for his turn.

"What is?"

"A relapse. That it's finally happened. I no longer have to worry whether it ever will."

A week has passed from the night John had sent his initial text, and Sherlock's symptoms are no longer progressing. He can't walk unless half-carried, half-dragged by someone else, but the muscle weakness seems to have limited itself to his lower limbs apart from some clumsiness and tingling in his fingers. The Imperial College neuroimmunologist visits him twice times a day—perhaps excessive, but most necessary to calm the patient's nerves as well as monitoring their signal conduction. According to Doctor Willard, plateauing at this stage means that recovery should be full and relatively swift. The road back to normal will not be in any way comparable to the trials faced by Sherlock after the first episode, which has left some lasting effects. A tendency to fatigue still lingers, and he will never reach the peak of his violin technique before he got ill. Regardless, he still made a satisfactory return to his old life.

Now that a favourable outcome seems imminent, Sherlock's restlessness, extreme anxiety, and his phobia of being left unaccompanied lest he get worse, have abated. Even John seems to breathe easier; he has been in a good mood today, leaving for the cinema an hour earlier. Perhaps he wouldn't even have needed a break tonight from Sherlock-minding, but since Mycroft has been quite looking forward to the evening, he had not questioned out loud the necessity of his presence.

Their relationship will never be easy, and the ghosts of days past will never stop haunting them, but sometimes he feels as though Sherlock might momentarily enjoy his company, too.

They text, sometimes. They _are_ brothers, after all—they should keep in touch.

"Perhaps we can forgo a respirator as your birthday present, then," Mycroft says mock-dryly as he shifts a pawn forward. Sherlock is clearly attempting a Queen's Indian Defence, quite a tedious choice.

"Shame. Could have devised some interesting experiments with one."

"Please spare the good doctor's nerves, Brother Mine. He puts up with a lot."

"It's what he likes," Sherlock says with a smirk. "He'd die of boredom without me."

Unlike during his first episode, this time he has not lost his expressions, has not turned into a waxen death mask. ' _No bulbar or cranial involvement'_ , as the neurologist likes to phrase things. Mycroft knows that this means that the nerves controlling his swallowing, facial expressions, and the pronunciation of words haven't suffered, nor is his hearing or vision affected. There is mild autonomic dysfunction leading to fluctuations in blood pressure and heart rhythm, which is why they must continue to put up with a small, portable monitor placed on the sofa cushion left of where Sherlock is sitting. As John had requested, it has a remote monitoring function connected to his phone. The most critical alarms are also relayed to a private ambulance service with headquarters a mere two blocks away. Mycroft has temporarily arranged for them to have an intensivist on staff twenty-four seven. This had been the least intrusive way of ensuring that there is an emergency physician at hand within minutes without posting one inside the flat. There has been a false alarm twice; both times, Sherlock had removed something in a fit of pique. 

Before they had decided on a game of chess, Sherlock had declined tea. Mycroft had prepared some, anyway, even though the selection had consisted only of Yorkshire Gold. While looking for the sugar, he had noticed a card taped to a cupboard door in the kitchen; one of the 'get well' variety, lovingly handcrafted by Doctor Molly Hooper.

Sometimes it confounds Mycroft—the way in which his temperamental, peculiar, unsociable quicksilver brother inspires such devotion and loyalty in his friends. And, that he has made several of them as an adult, after a childhood spent as a social pariah.

There is another card on the mantle from Scotland Yard, signed even by the likes of DCI Sally Donovan who Mycroft is aware is not a fan of Sherlock. Perhaps Gr––Chief Superintendent Lestrade has insisted that his whole team should sign it.

A glance at John's usual chair while waiting for Sherlock to make his move reveals a CD on the seat. The cover features a cartoonish image of nightly woods where a corpse hung up on a cross is burning, and naked women are dancing around it as though it were a maypole. The name of the performing group appears to be _The Judas Cradle_.

"Expanding our taste in music, are we?"

Sherlock shrugs—a small movement which catches Mycroft's attention because the ability for it had been lost during the first hit of GBS. "It was a case. Metal music in the style of Norwegian black metal benefits from band members having frightening reputations, but actually having to go to jail for murder tends to make touring the summer festivals rather challenging. A track on that album is their token of gratitude, titled "The Detective"."

"Ah. Now that you mention it, I do recall a blog post of John's detailing how unappreciative these musicians were when you picked apart what you described as _juvenile, copulation-obsessed album cover design and stage props designed to appeal to the brainless masses_."

On closer inspection, the corpse in the album cover has dark, curly hair and very prominent facial bone structure.

" _You_ read John's blog?"

Mycroft schools his features into nonchalance. "The occasional peek. It is, by far, the best way to keep up with the important life events of my living younger sibling."

"If only the surveillance cameras, the wiretaps and being a hovering nuisance were enough," Sherlock teases. "Someone—who we later learned was a member kicked out of the band—replaced their plastic prop skeleton with a real one. It was his girlfriend's; she died in a car accident where the former member was the inebriated driver. He attempted to frame the current members for her murder, but since he wasn't exactly a criminal mastermind his attempts at making her look like she was stabbed did not fool the pathologist. The guy did at least have some dramatic flair in him—the prop skeleton was posed in what is called the _Blood Eagle;_ an ancient torture and execution method in which the victim's back is sliced open, the ribs cut and then the ribcage spread from the back towards the front in an arrangement resembling wings."

Sherlock's tone is tastelessly excited, and while Mycroft is no stranger to blood and gore and unfazed by descriptions of torture and death, he feels obligated to continue schooling Sherlock on suitable topics over tea and biscuits by changing the subject. "Speaking of music; Mrs Ellicott assures she is available for therapeutic lessons, should you require them."

Sherlock has not taken violin lessons in years, but if he finds that his skills have suffered in any way because of the relapse, it is most convenient that they have someone available who is already familiar with Sherlock's temper and medical history.

Sherlock splays his fingers in the air as though inspecting recently painted nails. "Just pins and needles, no weakness or coordination issues. I doubt she'll be needed."

Mycroft had made note how quick he is quick to announce positive signs of progress, to swear by not needing rehabilitation, and dismissing John's attempts at realism. Yet again, it's Sherlock's favourite emotional defence mechanism—denial—at work But, right now, there is no need to call him out on it. As long as his prognosis looks as good as it does right now, pessimism serves no purpose.

Sherlock moves a bishop.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Mycroft asks pointedly.

Sherlock shrugs. "My funeral."

Gallows humour is something they often engage in, but something about the off-hand joke grates at Mycroft. "No, it most certainly won't be."

The match is a draw, which satisfies both honours.  
  
  


-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
  
——THREE MONTHS LATER——

  
Days after the parcel has been taken to the post office, Mycroft continues worrying how it will be received. Continues second-guessing himself. Wonders how his gift will be interpreted, and whether the reply will be an irritatingly ambiguous silence or some snarky remark. He and Sherlock never give one another very personal Christmas presents—thoughtful ones, yes, ones which signal awareness of the recipient's taste or clothing size—but not meaningful in a manner that a photograph could be.

 _They should have received it by now_.

The photo in the gift box is framed. Mycroft hopes that Sherlock will at least appreciate the level of personal discomfort he has endured picking the image and then having to look at it; he does not enjoy seeing himself in childhood photographs because they remind him of all the things other children picked on him for, mainly his weight. The bullying ended, once he came to his own, besting them at their own games of manipulating others. His giftedness in identifying the power players and taking advantage of them in a way that went unnoticed by lesser minds manifested at an early age, and it has guaranteed him a seat at all the important tables. Not at those visible to the public eye, of course, but at those where the real power lies. It's hard to say, in hindsight, which part of his desire for that very power was a personal aspiration, and how much of it was borne simply out of necessity. He needed to be in a position to contain his sister, and to protect his brother. He has done both, but rarely has he stopped to consider what he would have wanted out of the deal. Such meditation only began after Sherlock's willingness to deal with him hit a new low after the original GBS crisis.

Sherlock has never been just a duty to him. What he has done, he would do a thousand times again, despite the personal cost. He's not lonely. Why would he be lonely? He has everything he needs. And, he is genuinely happy for the unlikely and strange fact that his brother is in a happy marriage. But, what most delights him is that, while a lesser man would have cut ties after learning of the years of deception over Eurus, Sherlock had never seemed to consider such an act of defiance. He has withdrawn from their acquaintance, protested and complained, but even in 2007, he always came back. Always extended an olive branch, as long as he could do it on his own terms. He may not forgive every transgression he thinks Mycroft has perpetrated against him, but he's willing to communicate. In the context of the past, that is a major step forward. It may have been the truth about Eurus that had set them both free to redefine the parameters of their interactions. Perhaps, now, they might make peace with the past. Mycroft wonders if the years with John have given Sherlock a new maturity, a sense of perspective, and the reassurance that, if he clings to the ones who care about him, he can get through anything. Alone is not all he has, and his loved ones will go to great lengths protect him.

Mycroft wanders to the mantle in the library; he had chosen this spot for his copy of the photo in the parcel because he imagines—hopes—that the mantle at 221B Baker Street might be where its counterpart will be allowed to make a home.

In the photo, he is a small boy sitting on the front steps of their childhood home, an infant in his lap with dark curls, a pale complexion and his nose scrunched up in a frown as he is thoughtfully poking a forefinger into Mycroft's ear. _Always the curious little scientist._

In the picture, Mycroft is laughing and leaning his head away. It is the last photograph taken of the two of them before Eurus came along. The last one of them when their childhood was still happy and uncomplicated. The last photo before life began to choke the innocence out of the whole family.

Sherlock is the only one to have retained some of that innocence, along with a fragility that has made him extraordinarily susceptible to pain when others have not respected his right to be who he is.

Mycroft's Blackberry comes to life as he stokes the fire in the library.

_'Tea and scones at five at 221B. SH'_

Sherlock and Mycroft both always sign their text messages. It is a habit that connect them, separates them from others.

They don't invite each other for tea. They don't spend Christmases together unless there are summons to their parents' house in Surrey. This invitation is a thank-you and, as a message coming from Sherlock, it speaks loudly of good things.

An instant reply is warranted.

_'I'd be delighted. MH'_

——The End——

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr Rob Lake is a reference to _Bodies_ —a British medical drama that is the only one I have ever seen to really get things right. It's bleak and can be hard to find, but I highly recommend it.
> 
> The case Sherlock recounts in this chapter was strongly influenced by the Bones episode _Mayhem on a Cross_.


End file.
